


When You Give a Pirate Some Sugar

by PocketAnon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketAnon/pseuds/PocketAnon
Summary: David walks in on his daughter sharing a little sugar (and spice) with her favorite pirate.  (Captain Swan one-shot. Humor, fluff, and smut.  Rated E.)





	When You Give a Pirate Some Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s my submission for the CS Group Prompt! As much as I adore writing _Scar Tissue_ , it was fun to take a break this week and work on this instead. Hope you enjoy, and go check out the other submissions at (http://flslp87.tumblr.com/post/150487889501/cs-group-prompt-master-post-last-update-1015pm)!

Autumn sun streams through the gauzy white bedroom curtains, the warm light spilling across the wood floor and encroaching onto the plush rug beneath the king-sized four-poster bed. Killian rolls over beneath the cotton sheets, one arm flung over the empty space next to him as he blinks awake and groggily looks around. It’s not often that he sleeps so late, being accustomed to rising at or before the dawn, but, to be fair, there were extenuating circumstances this time, namely the post-midnight hours he and Emma spent awake last night – in bed, but very much not-sleeping. A grin curves his lips at the memory. She’s a marvel, his Swan – fiery and passionate and, some days, downright _insatiable_. And gods, does he love it.

He vaguely remembers her waking up a little while ago and rolling out from under his embrace. She loves to sleep in as much as he, but if there’s one thing that can drive Emma out of bed, it’s the growl of her stomach. Even now he can hear the faint sounds of her moving about in the kitchen downstairs, water running in the kitchen sink and the clink of plates and cutlery likely being dried and put away. Killian stretches languidly and rolls into a half-sit, leaning on his left arm and running his hand through his mussed hair. A moment later, his feet land on the rug, and he collects his sleep pants and T-shirt from a pool on the floor and slips them on with a contented yawn. His hook, brace attached, hangs from a strap of leather tied around one bedpost, and he grabs them as he heads toward the door, fitting his stump into the brace and securing it without a thought. 

He pads barefoot down the steps, the old staircase creaking the way it does whenever he hits the fourth stair from the bottom.

At the telltale sound, Emma pauses what she’s doing in the kitchen to glance in his direction and flash him a smile. “Hey.”

“’Morning, love.” He admires her as he approaches. Her hair is in tousled disarray down her back, and she’s dressed in a collared sleepshirt with pink and white pinstripes that reaches to mid-thigh and rides up almost scandalously high when she stretches one arm above her head to retrieve a mixing bowl from an upper cabinet. He’s fairly certain that the shirt is the only thing she’s wearing, mostly because he knows that the lacy underthings she had on yesterday evening are still strewn across their bedroom floor. 

“I brought the paper in,” she tells him, gesturing to a bundle of newsprint on the kitchen table as she pulls open the door of their sea green refrigerator and surveys the contents. “What do you want for breakfast? Pancakes? Eggs?” Emma bends over and reaches for the egg carton, her outstretched hand pausing as her gaze flits between the eggs and some thick-cut bread on the counter. She brightens and looks over her shoulder at him. “How about french toast?” Her eyebrow crooks imperiously when she realizes he’s preoccupied by the rather nice view of her toned flanks that her current position affords him.

Killian tears his gaze away and looks back at her face, grinning unabashedly. “Sorry, love. You were saying?”

Emma rolls her eyes and tosses her head, straightening a little but not bothering to feign displeasure. “I asked if you wanted french toast.”

He smiles blankly. “I don’t believe I know what that is, Swan.”

She grins and nods decisively. “Well, we can fix that.” She gathers up eggs, butter, and milk from the refrigerator, and her hip bumps the door shut with practiced fluidity, a move that makes him smirk. 

“Is french toast similar to french fries?” he guesses, settling himself at the kitchen table and reaching for the paper. Today’s headline about Storybrooke’s fall festival is uncharacteristically sedate for a town that seems to find itself besieged by magical crises every other day.

She chuckles, cutting a generous pat of butter into her favorite cast iron skillet and setting it to heat over a roaring blue flame on the sea green stove that matches their refrigerator. “No.”

Killian leafs through the paper. “Then what makes them both ‘french’?” he asks, scanning for any stories of interest.

Emma smiles at the source of his confusion. She cracks a few eggs into her mixing bowl and douses them with milk. “Oh. Well–” The milk and egg cartons return to the refrigerator, and she reaches into a cabinet for more ingredients. “‘French’ refers to the country of origin – France,” she explains, dashing vanilla extract and salt into the bowl. “Though they say that neither french toast or french fries were actually invented there.” She shrugs as she whisks her concoction together. “But I guess we call a lot of things ‘French’ that aren’t, really.” Emma carries the bowl and the bread to the stove, swirling slices through her eggy mixture and laying them one by one in the searing hot skillet with a satisfying hiss. “French braids, French manicures, French roast, French kissing…” 

Killian’s ears perk up, and he looks up from his paper interestedly. “Come again?”

Emma rolls her eyes, shooting him an amused side-eye. “French roast?” she asks innocently. “It’s a type of coffee.”

He acknowledges her coyness with a chiding smile. “The French have a special way of kissing?”

“It’s not actually French,” she reiterates with a chuckle, rotating away from him to turn the bread slices, revealing the undersides to be a beautiful mottled golden brown. “I mean, I’m pretty sure they didn’t invent it.” She eyes his eager expression with a lopsided grin. “But if you must know, a kiss that involves tongue is often referred to as a French kiss. By, like, twelve year-olds.” 

Killian’s expression morphs from boyish flirt to lascivious ne’er-do-well, a slow, enticing smile curving his lips. “Really.” He rises from his chair and approaches.

Emma extinguishes the burner on the stove and slips out of his impending grasp with a giggle under the guise of going to fetch a plate. Undeterred, he prowls after her, trapping her in the corner against the counter, a happy rumble vibrating in his chest as she turns to confront him with dancing green eyes.

“So if I understand you correctly,” he drawls thoughtfully, a finger raised, “ _This_ is not a French kiss.” He leans down and touches his lips to hers chastely, like a gentleman. He pulls back just far enough to see her eyes flutter back open, pupils dilating as she licks her lips with anticipation, and his face splits into a rakish grin. “But _this_ is.” His arms cinch around her waist, and he pulls her roughly up against him, slanting his mouth over hers. He steals her breath, curling their tongues together, his lips moving firmly and deliberately and aggressively over hers. He’s dimly aware of Emma’s hands sliding up his arms, one fisting the neck of his T-shirt while the other buries itself in his hair, and she lets out a quiet moan that tells him she’s quickly forgetting all about breakfast. Killian slides his hand down over the silky fabric of her sleepshirt and pulls the hem upward, delighting in the fact that he was right about her not having anything on underneath as he caresses her perfect ass. The way she whimpers in response to his touch is intoxicating. 

He smiles into her mouth, feeling the familiar rush of blood south to his groin and the elation that accompanies it. Killian reaches low and hoists her up with a little grunt, and measuring cups and spoons are unceremoniously shoved aside as he sets Emma down on the edge of the mushroom-colored quartz counter. He growls approvingly when she spreads her knees to invite him to step between them, and he cups the side of her neck possessively, her pulse rapidly thrumming under his thumb as she throws her hands over his shoulders and hauls him even closer. 

Dropping his hand to her left knee, he skims softly up the inside of her leg, nudging aside the tail of her sleepshirt and exposing her completely to his touch. Emma gasps loudly when his fingertips reach her core, and Killian groans into her mouth when he finds her already slick and hot. _Bloody hell._ He grins wickedly and locates that little spot that makes her tremble and writhe, working his hand against her with increasing pressure as the muscles in her thighs begin to twitch. He pulls his lips away from hers and dips his head next to her ear as he continues his ministrations. “Care for a different kind of French kiss, love?” he murmurs, nibbling his way down her slender throat.

She shudders. “Oh gods…”

“What the hell?!”

The sound of David’s angry bellow triggers sudden chaos. Emma’s eyes pop wide open, and she yelps in dismay, and Killian, after several hundred years’ worth of experience with unexpected tavern meleés, instinctively pulls his hand away from her and ducks his head, craning to look in the direction of the threat. He zeroes in on the now-open front door, where Emma’s father is standing on the threshold with a heavy-looking box in his arms and a very unfavorable mixture of shock, embarrassment, and stormy displeasure on his chiseled features. 

“Dad!” Emma barks. Killian jumps back so she can she slam her knees together, doing her best to straighten the nightshirt and cover herself up. Realizing that even in the best of circumstances, she’s still over-exposed as far as her father is concerned, he huffs and does his best to shield her from David’s line of sight. Glancing down at the obvious evidence of his arousal, he hastily looks around before spinning to grab the folded newspaper off the kitchen table with an irritated roll of his eyes, positioning it in front of himself as he faces David down.

“Sorry, sorry…” David’s face is ruddy as he recovers from his initial shock and directs his frustrated blue eyes to the ceiling above him.

“Ever hear of knocking?” Emma asks angrily, her fingertips perching on Killian’s shoulders as she peeks out from behind him.

“I _did_ ,” David informs them exasperatedly. “Apparently you were too… distracted to hear it. And the door was unlocked, so I figured it was alright to come in.”

From behind him, Killian hears Emma bite back a curse under her breath. “I unlocked it when I went to get the paper,” she explains apologetically, and he meets her eye over his shoulder, giving her a weak smile and a little nod of forgiveness. Emma gives a heavy sigh. “Why are you here, Dad?”

David shifts his weight restlessly, neck still craned upward. “Your mother wanted me to bring some things over for your kitchen,” he says, his jaw still visibly tense, his Adam’s apply bobbing as he swallows. “It didn’t occur to us I might be interrupting something. I mean, for gods’ sakes, you two, it’s nine o’clock in the morning…”

“Oh, really?” Emma laughs incredulously, her voice rising in challenge. “And what about Tacos?”

Killian has no idea what that means, but the way David’s cheeks turn two shades darker betrays that the Prince certainly does. Killian forgets his own embarrassment momentarily, a curious grin creeping across his face as he watches his friend open his mouth to say something and then falter as he thinks better of it. 

David presses his lips back together in a thin line and continues to glower at the ceiling with indignance. He briefly closes his eyes and heaves a deep breath before redirecting his attention to the box in his arms. Giving Killian and Emma (and the kitchen) a wide berth, he stalks over to the living room and sets the box down on the coffee table, the contents making a muffled clatter on impact. 

His gaze remains pointedly averted as he turns and strides back to the door. “You have magic, Emma,” he reminds her, his tone long-suffering. “Lock the door next time. Use a protection spell. Anything. Let’s just… not do this again, alright?” He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, grimacing as a thought occurs. “Oh, and Sunday family dinner will be at our place for a little while if it’s okay with you.”

Killian feels his cheeks grow hotter, and Emma’s forehead falls forward onto the back of his shoulder in mortification. “Mm-hmm,” she manages weakly. 

To Killian’s amusement, she begins to shake behind him with silent mirth as David retreats, yanking the door shut on his way out. Emma’s father’s shadow disappears down the steps of the front porch, and the sound of his agitated steps fade in the distance. 

Shoulders relaxing, Killian tosses the paper aside and turns to face her, and when their eyes meet, she promptly bursts in a helpless giggle, some of her hair tumbling down like a veil over her face as she covers her eyes with her hands. “Oh gods…”

Her laughter is infectious, and he erupts as well, grinning sheepishly and gently nudging her knees apart again so he can close the distance between them and wrap her in his arms. “All things considered, I think that went quite well, love,” he muses, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief. 

Emma looks up, pushing her hair back out of her eyes as her expression becomes that of cheerful chagrin, her lower lip between her teeth. 

“I honestly thought we’d be reverting to the days when your father said hello by punching me in the face.” Killian shrugs, dropping his gaze to her limited attire, his fingers finding their way beneath the hem of her sleepshirt once more and beginning to trace delicate concurrent circles across her low back. “Not that I’d blame him.” He raises his eyebrow smugly. “The poor man did just walk in on his daughter being defiled by a pirate.”

Emma chuckles and lays a hand on his chest, scratching lightly at his chest hair through his shirt. “I suppose we should get back to breakfast, huh?” she sighs with resignation. She reaches sideways for a small, square ceramic jar resting on the counter next to them.

He watches her. “What’s that, then?”

“Powdered sugar,” she replies, working open the airtight lid to allow him a look at the soft, white confection inside. “You sprinkle it on top of the french toast. See?” She dips her fingertip into the jar and holds it to his lips.

Killian eyes the dusting of sugar on her proffered digit and looks back up at her, crooking his brow at the glint in her eye. He leans forward and takes her finger into his mouth, licking the sugar off in a way that starts both their hearts racing all over again. The sweetness on his tongue is pleasing, but not as pleasing as the pretty wash of pink that rises in her cheeks and the way her breath quickens. When his lips release her, he smiles deviously. “I wager it tastes lovely sprinkled on other things too,” he says, stepping back and sliding his right arm beneath her knees in order to scoop her off the counter. “Bring the sugar, love. And lock the door.”

Emma laughs as he carts her out of the kitchen, the container in her lap. “Where are we going?” she teases, a chorus of clicks resounding as she locks down every door and window in the house with a wave of her hand.

Killian grins and heads for the staircase. “To indulge in the ways of the French.”

 

* * *

 

It’s later in the day that Killian’s phone buzzes with an incoming text while he’s reading in the living room. His forehead wrinkles with suspicion as Emma is really the only person who ever sends him messages this way and she’s standing at the kitchen counter sorting through the box of items her mother sent over. Fishing the phone out of his pocket, he looks at the screen, and his heart rate jumps as he realizes that it’s from David. 

_One old-fashioned guy to another, if you two are going to break in your new house like that, at least have the decency to get married first._

 

Killian blinks, simultaneously chastised and intrigued. He can’t be sure whether David means to get back at him for this morning’s trauma by trying to make him squirm or if this simply constitutes a not-so-subtle hint from a father looking out for his daughter’s honor, but Killian supposes he’s content with either possibility. A sly smile curls the corner of his mouth, and he glances up to make sure Emma remains occupied and blissfully unaware of this exchange before he returns the challenge.

_Are you granting me permission to ask your daughter for her hand, mate?_

 

There’s a long moment before the phone vibrates again.

_I guess I am._

 

Killian crows inwardly, his heart swelling with triumph and validation. Mary Margaret has been increasingly forthright in her support of his relationship with Emma. David, on the other hand, despite their friendship, has always seemed to view Killian’s bond with his daughter more with grudging acceptance than anything else. Up until now. Killian smirks and texts back.

_I’ll take it under advisement. Thank you._

 

He smiles privately as he imagines David’s grumble of acknowledgement. Killian rises to his feet, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He feels the sudden urge to go give Emma a kiss. After all, he reasons, he’s just learned that getting amorous in the kitchen can lead to more than one desired outcome.


End file.
